


It's all a game

by Crazypreacher



Category: Ice-Pick Lodge: Pathologic, Pathologic, Мор. Утопия | Pathologic
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Gnosticism, M/M, Mysticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 14:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6757075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazypreacher/pseuds/Crazypreacher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both want to save the town, but their enemy is time, of which there's never enough. What will the scientist and the shaman do under such pressure, when they experience certain feelings towards each other?</p>
<p>Note: This fanfiction is mostly based on the Bachelor's scenario, bit some things are "borrowed" from Haruspex' scenario, as well (The Changeling's scenario is ignored for the most part). A large part of this story is build around a massive spoiler, so if you're only going to play "Pathologic", it can seriously ruin your meeting with the Authorities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's all a game

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Мы в игре](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/195058) by Nichja. 



> All names, personal and common, are translated and romanized according to the official Pathologic wiki (sorry, there's been a couple of official translations, as well as a couple of fan walkthroughs/translations on Something Awful forums, and all of this is altogether too much to keep the track of). 
> 
> The only thing I changed was how "tvir" and "tvirine" are written - they often seem to be spelled like "twyr/twyrine", but there's no "w" sound in Russian and there's no particular reason for the "y" to be in there, either.

So little time.

I'm in a mad race against the clock, but unlike me, time doesn't need to eat or sleep, nor does it have fever. I've worked myself into a corner with this monstrous timetable: a shot of meradorm in the evening, then a measly six hours of sleep. The rest of the time I keep chewing on coffee beans - disgusting stuff, and it makes my heart jump, but otherwise I'll just drop and fall asleep right on the pavement. Antibiotics help keeping the Sand Plague at bay, but only just. Its onsets keep catching up with me at the least convenient of times, as if the sickness does have a will of its own and wishes me dead.

  
      I'm starving, but there's barely enough money left for crackers. So I, Bachelor Dankovsky, I, the doctor, I, the medical luminary, go out killing again. I wanted to defeat death, and now I deal it out myself. Patrolmen pat me on the shoulder, thank me for purging the town of bandits and share their ammunition or their rations, while I simply recharge my revolver, feeling no terror or remorse - just fatigue, hunger and nausea from Sand Plague. Voluntary cooperation with the militia, murder, looting - whatever you call it, I must have a considerable talent for it. At any rate, a greater one than for healing those in need. I must have chosen the wrong trade.

    Everything smells of tvir. The damned steppe is driving me insane, like it has already driven this entire town. The sort of devilry these people believe in belongs in fairy tales. Everyone just won't shut up about shamans, Mares the Man-Eaters, those idiotic taboos about how no one must ever spill blood, save for the healers.

Healers, such as Burakh. They are called the Menkhu. He has it better than me - he's a native of this place. For him, all those bloodthirsty myths and complex rituals are a trivial and natural thing. He keeps brewing his crazy potions, but what's funny is that they do work, work at least as well as feromycinum and the best immunomodulators. I'm almost ready to believe that Burakh will finally create his panacea and save everyone, after all, and I will fail. My strength will fail me, and my famous analytical mind won't help.

* * *

I go out into the steppe and listen to tvir. I still hear her whisper, her song. I was afraid that in my years of wandering I forgot how to do it. I lay myself down into the grass and breathe in her heady smell. It is soothing.

I didn't take to this Dankovsky fellow at first. A swell and haughty lad he was, clean-shaven, wearing a fancy coat of fake snakeskin, carrying a carpet bag and smelling strongly of cologne. Was looking at me as if I was some savage - or madman. He himself was a slight thing, thin boned, but visibly dangerous in a fight. The damsels must adore him, rumour has it, Maria Kaina, the Mistress-To-Be herself, has given her heart to him...

Yes, at first I believed he would be of no use. Now I half hope he will invent something, invent the way to stop the pestilence. I surely will not sit here, awaiting his decision. I have my own duty. A Menkhu never hides behind the other's back. And yet it is good not to have to take on the Plague alone.

I see the lines. See that we are not to be friends, and conversely, are to be enemies. So Fate decided. But whatever Fate decides, I still have my free will. I don't want to be his enemy. 

Tvir rustles around me. _O Steppe, give me your strength, give me your wisdom. O Mother Bodkho, do not leave your son_ , I whisper the usual words, stroking  the rigid stalks and touching my lips to the warm earth. I am used to hunger and lack of sleep, but how does he still last? It must be half pride, half desperation, that keeps him standing... Had I time and coin, I would invite him to break bread with me, would make the tincture - the one that flows along one's Lines like a sweet fire, that strengthens the spirit and refreshes the body. I would ask for his friendship properly, as befits the way of the steppe.    

Such strange thoughts... I know him barely a week. We have barely a week ahead before we all die or - if we are victorious - before he leaves for the Capital and I remain here, bound by the duty of a Menkhu and a son.

* * *

So I, too, have innocent blood on my hands now - or rather, we have innocent blood on ours. Burakh has dissected that poor dancer as if she were a cow, dissected her for me... And now in the eyes of the locals he is a madman, a Butcher, a bloody terror - again. Appearances are deceiving - when you cut down to it, he is more humane than I. He is strong, sturdy, his face coarse - seems a veritable butcher. And yet, a haruspex - a surgeon and a shaman.

Why do I keep thinking of him? What a joke. A worthy object of admiration, indeed! Such astonishing people live here: the Stamatin brothers, our genius architects, the Mistresses, who made me, the staunch materialist, believe in soothsaying... And yet Burakh is the most astonishing of all

  
      I believe in him. He will create his panacea. The Kains are against him, the Saburovs are against him, even I am against him, I think - yet he doesn't surrender. He is a free man. I, who was so proud of my principles, now forgo them again and again, and he does what he thinks is right. What does he see me as? Is it just my wounded pride, or is there a hint of mockery in his respectful style, _oinon,_ when he addresses me?

He said he would like to be my friend. But how? There's so little time. We shall remain strangers. Most likely, we shall die with this city, reunited only in death, unhappily ever after. What a strange thing to say - almost as if this shaman has bewitched me.            

* * *

O Mother Bodkho! Is it Suok that clouds my thoughts, distracting me, or is it you that shows me the line of the lines? I met with Daniil again today, and my blood called out to me: he was speaking, yet I wasn't listening. I was looking at his lips and didn't even dare to breath. O Eva, the wench with languid eyes, Eva, delicate as a figurine of white gold! Once I made mock of you, now I'm envious. You have entangled your lines with his, ensnared him in your web, leaving me no chance.

'Twas an ill hour you came here, Daniil, and crossed my path. 'Twas an ill hour I looked in your eyes. But know this - I will not surrender. You will have your panacea. My father, the powerful Menkhu, bequeathed me his craft and his power. I shall do what no one will - in the name of his memory, my soul and yourself.     

I see it now - we have no time for a single glance, no time for a word or touch. But is it not for the better? Us fighting to the death - that's what Fate wants. And maybe, Fate will have it. After all, Bachelor, it's my town you wish to stamp out in the name of a probable lifeless miracle. This witch, Maria, leads you on, and you follow, like a blind man. The only life is here and now. It's primitive and bloody, but it's the only truth. This mathematical madness of yours, this Tower, the Polyhedron (be it paper or mirrors) is just a delusion. Has not enough blood been spilled for the sake of a better future? Utopia is impossible. And I have sworn to protect this town with my heart and my blood.

The doubt entangles me. Where is the knife that could cut these tangles? Will you lend me your scalpel, oinon? Maybe, your mind, sharper than any blade, can separate between good and ill, between fate and chance?

* * *

What is happening to me? Am I just delirious from heat and stress? Why are you looking at me so strangely, Artemiy? Your pupils are dilated, and there's sweat on you brow. Are you sick? Somehow, I cannot bring myself to touch your forehead and feel your fever. It's not unusual for a doctor to be concerned about the health of others, but can it be a doctor's concern that makes my heart race? What lunacy!

I forgot how to feel shy a long time ago. Did I ever know how? But now, I keep looking away from him...     

You are strong, very strong. Like a bull. The locals are mad on bulls... what savage witchery! It ought to have remained in the Stone Age. Tell me, o medicine man, is there truth in the tales? Tell me. Your words are the ones I believe.

* * *

I've lost. I was late. I was unable. Of course, you have defeated me, Bachelor. I've learned who killed my father, I've accepted my legacy, I've created the panacea, but I've lost. There's not enough for everyone. Alexander Blok, this suckling of Suok, will destroy my town.      

So you have succumbed to Maria after all, Daniil. You are, too, obsessed with the Polyhedron now, as if this brainchild of a lunatic architect were more precious than thousands of lives...  

I cannot hope that you renounce your dream for the sake of my duty, that you agree to fell the Tower and give way to the blood of the Great Bull. But come nonetheless.

* * *

I have found the source of the Plague. But to destroy this building, the like of which no one will ever create, not even Stamatin himself, having drowned his talent in tvirine? No. There is no saving the town. It's poisoned by the blood of the dead, and no panacea can save it. Forgive me, Artemiy.

I thought I could tell that to him, thought I was as certain of my own righteousness as always. But when Burakh spoke of how he had found a way to make enough panacea, a whole ocean of it, to heal the entire town... I wavered. I promised to sneak him into the last council, as well. Let the Inquisitor decide who is right.

I had to make the last tour of the town and check if all those inescapable Adherents are still alive. I did have enough time, though - that day the town suddenly became clean, as if the sickness indeed was a sentient beast that has lain low, trying to throw us off its trail. But something kept me. What? It's not like I was going to tell Artemiy anything, to admit his victory, his power over me - never!

But I couldn't just leave, either.   

I took off my gloves, reached out and touched his forehead at last. It was cold and a little wet with sweat. As if by accident, my fingers stroke his short, coarse hair, as well. He won't know why I did this, he will just think I was being overcautious and looking for symptoms. We have tested the panacea on ourselves, and it worked. There is no logical explanation for this, it just works. 

Whatever Blok and Lilich decide, I'm leaving tomorrow. I am fed up with the steppe, the town and all its dwellers. Not with you, haruspex - I will never be able to become fed up, to become sated with you, nor will I dare. But starvation is better than poisoning, and you, Artemiy, are a poison, a drug... like tvirine. I mustn't become addicted. The fight against Death is not yet won, Thanatica is not yet restored - I have too much to do.

Far too slowly and with needless deliberation I was pulling on my gloves and sorting through syringes, bandages and pills in my carpet bag. What am I giving up on? I don't even want to think. Long conversations, debates, disputes with you. The possibility of being your mentor - and your disciple. The feelings and emotions that used to be foreign to me. Or perhaps, just your surprised detestation - who knows how you will see my outburst?    

Any minute now he'll ask why I am stalling...

* * *

I should have fallen at your feet and embraced your knees. I never thought you could be so magnanimous. Then again, it's probably honesty that drives you, not magnanimity. The Emissaries of the Authorities must be given all the facts there are. I won't be surprised if you bring Clara to the council, as well.

No, Daniil. I won't grovel at another man's feet, even if the man is you. 

And don't fret, there's no sickness in me, you needn't have checked me for fever. I would love to touch you in return, but I can't think of a pretext to do so. Anyhow, I wouldn't be satisfied with what the narrow frame of propriety leaves me. I wish to embrace you and feel if your form is as lithe as it seems, if your skin is as tender. Had I just one idle day and your consent, I would relieve you of all your weariness, all your pain. I am up to my elbows in blood, and my hands long to be used for healing. If I got hold of you, they would at once remember they were taught to give life, not death. 

But you are leaving, and I am staying. Even if the town falls, the steppe is my home. My talent is not fit for the universities of the Capital, even though father didn't send me there for nothing. And your talent must serve not a handful of tribes, but all of humanity. Our paths are different.

I have even begun to think like you - to calculate, consider and evaluate the possibilities... No, Daniil, I will not succumb to you so completely! I don't know what will happen if I follow the call of my blood. Will you resent me, will you laugh at me or just shrug your shoulders? Do as you like, I'll still try.

I asked him when he was leaving. _Tomorrow,_ he said.

"Will you stay one more day, if I ask you to, Daniil?"

He stopped and stared at me, looking almost terrified.

* * *

Will I stay? He must be making fun of me, as if he were reading my mind!

If I have a place to stay, of course. Who knows what Blok will do. But even if the town isn't destroyed...

You know, if I leave without telling him, it would be cowardice. A stand-off on the surface, but a defeat in essence. It would mean I have learned to lose. If I give up the Polyhedron and flee from the quarrel, I will never restore Thanatica. How will I be able to defeat mortality, if I am defeated by a mortal?    

But careful there. All my dreams and doubts may very well come to a common and crude conclusion: we'll get drunk on tvirine, I'll blurt something suggestive, and he, instead of beating me up, will take advantage of the situation. Such is the manner of those simple steppe people - don't refuse a gift, don't accept the blow. He's a being of flesh and blood, like me, he's on edge, exhausted... he won't hesitate to make me into a toy to quench his lust or ease his strain. No, I do not want that.

But I'm being unfair. He may look as dumb as a butcher or as savage as a cutthroat, but he's neither. There's an uncanny mind behind this coarse face and a soul of a poet, or at least a shaman, in this burly body.

I looked him in the eye. This is funny - his eyebrows are very thin, as if he plucks them. Looks strange with his heavy features and three day stubble. Yes, whatever I have found in him, it certainly isn't beauty.

"If you ask, I will stay."

* * *

 

I didn't expect him to return, and so soon, too. He looked as if he's just been in the midst of a heated battle - staggering, pale, with a frozen stare. If I hadn't supported him, he would have crumbled to the floor.

I thought some disaster has befallen us - a mutiny in the army, a murder of one chess piece by another, or news of the epidemic breaking through the cordon and spreading across the land. Daniil clutched at me.

"Lies," he said. "All lies..." 

I must have asked what had happened. Or if he was well.

And he spoke. At first, I thought that he was raving, then that he was implying some particularly heinous intrigue. I even began explaining that the games of the higher powers are no excuse to sit idly, that our duty is to save as many lives as possible, that we are doctors, after all... His laugh made me fall silent.

"You don't understand. It's not a metaphor. It's all a game. We really are dolls, Artemiy. You. Me. Everyone."

What happened to you, Daniil, in these two hours of absence? Who made you, the scientist, the analyst, the skeptic, believe this gibberish about a toy town and discarded dolls? Have you been drugged? Hypnotised? I cannot bear to look at you...

No, you will come to your senses, you must. Here am I, Daniil, look at me. Am I not human? Does blood not run through my veins? Does my heart not beat, does my chest not rise with breath? Do my hands not yearn to be touched? Do my eyes not look at you?

"I won't go to the council. There's no use. All my thoughts, aspirations, discoveries - all of them are a lie. Thanatica has never been. I have never been."

And then I hit him across the face.

* * *

    

Why did I come to him? Did I expect him to help me? He's a doll. A toy, just like me.

I thought I was human. I even thought I was in love with him. What a fool! I was played, you were played, we were played... I am an empty shell that someone's mad fancy has filled with ersatz mind and feelings. Such vileness.

I wouldn't believe just words, but I have seen the _reality_. Now I see clearly that everything around is a set piece, a crude imitation - houses made of sand and ragdolls instead of people. Has this been my life?! Have I been so stupid as not to suspect absolutely anything, so naive as to believe in free will?

There can be no decisions. Destroying the town or the Tower, destroying everything or preserving everything - what difference does it make, if the entire world is a sandbox for toddlers to play? _Let's make believe the pestilence ends today. Let's make believe the panacea works. Let's make believe he thinks the Tower is bad. Let's make believe._

I don't want to. I don't want anything, I don't care. I don't even want to die, a doll isn't alive all the same.     

I'll just stay with you for a while...

He hit me, probably thinking I'm in a state and he'll slap the sense back into me. He's got a heavy hand, but it didn't help.

I lifted my eyes.

"You will go to the council," he said. "You will go to the council and you will make your decision!"

Is this what matters for you, Artemiy? That's where your strength lies. I obey the facts, and you would find freedom even in confinement. If you were told that you're a doll, you would just say: "So what?" If you were told that your life is fake, you would say: "No, it isn't."

I cannot. 

Very well, I will go to the council and hand over my right to decide to you. 

But why, even now that I know you're just a doll, I still want to take your hands in mine, to press my lips to them?

Such perverse games those children play...

* * *

Daniil was sitting on a bench at the back wall with his head in his hands. When he and I entered the cathedral, he approached Blok and told him quietly that his decision was in my favour and that I was going to present all my evidence. Then he stepped aside, sat himself down and didn't even move once the entire time.

Aglaya could barely conceal her triumphant smile. I could hope to gain her favour, I believe. She is as wise as Daniil, as self-assured and supercilious as he is, and possesses the same sort of beauty: black hair, dark bright eyes, flawless skin. Were my heart unoccupied, I would invite Inquisitor Lilich to celebrate out victory, but now I barely noticed her.

You promised me a day, Daniil. Then you may leave, if you wish. I don't need anything.

Who I am deceiving?... I do need - need you. I shall waste away without seeing you, without knowing what's happening to you. You will tear the knots of my lines out of me and take them with you. Oh, Daniil, if only you knew how much I need you. I can hardly breathe without you. O Mother Bodkho, save me from dishonor. Look at him, he's not himself right now. I could take advantage of his weakness, offer him to drown his sorrows, get him drugged and trick him...

No, no, not like that, never. I don't think it will come true, however. Either way, you won't agree to stay with me for long, and neither will I be able to go with you, until there's another Menkhu for my town...

Oh, the things I am thinking of! As if you've already consented... How I wish... I keep imagining yourself nude under me, your breath, the warmth of your skin. The ways I would caress you... no one, only a Tvir Bride would surpass me, the one who knows the lines.

I have fulfilled my duty, father. But what am I to do now?

* * *

He grasped my shoulder and forcefully turned me to face him.

"You promised you would stay for one day, oinon."

I didn't have enough strength to argue. I should run and save my life, but what for? Let the Kains or the Stamatins whose future I stole get me. Or will they? Maybe the little kids will tire of their stupid game and put all their dolls into a chest.

Clara approached us smiling - a strange, detached smile.

"You need a miracle, Bachelor. Only through a miracle does the lifeless become alive. But I will not perform miracles for you."

Artemiy stood in her way.

"Oh, I see. You're funny. But that's not enough. Try it once, haruspex, and you will kill, for you know nothing else. Better to abandon this path..."

And she went off. Suddenly, her words hit me: so she does know? Knows that we all are dolls?

For some reason, I asked what she was talking about. Artemiy averted his eyes. When he looks away, his face looks positively thuggish, especially with this way he moves his jaw... 

Maria was also leaving.

"You will be sorry," she spit - at me or at Burakh, I wasn't sure.

I already am, Mistress, far more sorry then you can imagine.

She had almost left before suddenly turning and lifting her eyebrows, as if in surprise. Then she squinted and laughed nastily.

"Look at these two fools - and neither sees the obvious! If only the mother could see who had been given the right to decide!"

After all of this ended, Artemiy was for some reason apologizing that he couldn't invite me into the house of his father. He must have been talking about some steppe laws of hospitality. I didn't care where I would spent this promised day, but spending it with Artemiy would probably be better than any of the alternatives. Our dreams come true in such twisted ways. If I didn't know the truth, this day would be the strangest of my life. I would remember it for a long time... even if we wouldn't go any further than playful conversations. We would drink, speak, smile at each other. I would remember every minute, every glance of yours.

There's something still left in me, haruspex, but it's not real anymore. What's the use to dream of you, if you're just a doll, a ragdoll stuffed with straw? What's the use of dreaming to me, if I'm a doll like you?..

* * *

Our conversation flags. Your mind is on this blasted revelation you have experienced at such a wrong time, and I just cannot reassure you. You keep saying you have seen "the true reality" and now it's impossible for you to even think of the world around the same way. Just what have you seen? And what can be done now?

You need to relax, but I don't dare to offer you my help. I could take a look at the lines of your body, straighten them and take away your weariness and pain... But will I be able to remain a doctor, if I touch you? I do not wish you to think ill of me.

I drink, yet the bottle gives me no resolve. I am used up, too, but I am celebrating my victory, and you - you are suffering a defeat. You told me once you would put a bullet through your head, if you were to lose. I hope you weren't in earnest?

I told him then that I didn't know him for long, but the man I knew was different - a fighter who knows no weakness. I told him that he mustn't surrender, for now that we had defeated the Sand Plague, we could conquer any obstacle. He just looked at me...

Words aren't enough. They never are.

I looked at Daniil. Suddenly and clearly I saw a knot in his line that had tied itself where it shouldn't have. A subluxation of radiocarpal joint of his right wrist. Must be the recoil of the revolver. Your hands of a scientist aren't used to shooting... I reached out, took the glove off his hand and closed my fingers thoroughly around the knot. His hand is so small in my arms, like that of a maiden. He wasn't even surprised.

* * *

There's something about this steppe devilry, after all. That's not how one fixes subluxations, but you've found a couple of points, pressed and stroked them, and at once my wrist was back to normal. Actually, it's a pity it was all over so quickly, and I didn't venture to keep hold of your hand.

"If you permit, I shall do what I must... Please, take off your coat, Daniil."

And that was how I undressed myself before you, but only as a patient undresses before a doctor. Although... we are celebrating your victory, inside your hideout, alone. There may be no candles, but there is a hearth, and we've drunk more than enough. The touch of your fingers is tender, and the way you look at me is...

Can it...? Even if  I'm only imagining that you return my feelings, it doesn't matter, because our entire life is a lie, a game, a performance. I see now what Clara meant. Of course, you will kill by healing. You will give me back my resolve. I won't wait for a miracle, I don't need the Authorities' charity. I'm sorry if you are to suffer, but I will not, cannot be a doll for the rest of my days, not even for your sake. I either win or lose, once and for all. This is the last day, the last night.

He squinted and put his hands around my neck, trying to release my knotted muscles. I put my arms around his shoulders, pulled him closer and tilted my head back to look into his eyes. His hands weakened, ran up my neck and stroked my cheeks. He was looking at me unblinking. I haven't longed for a kiss so much in a long time. If you also want it, Artemiy...

And he bent and pressed his lips to mine. I didn't think he could be this gentle, as if he was led not by lust and passion, but by something else, as ancient as the steppe... All of a sudden I felt how weary he was, as if our sensations mingled for a moment.

We never did undress fully, just to the waist. He pulled me down on his bed, never stopping this strange, fascinating ritual - the extension of the lines. Which of his touches were caresses and which were part of the healing ritual? I didn't even want to know. I felt my body regain its strength and health, my consciousness its clarity. Artemiy, on the other hand, was growing more and more weary, as if he was pouring the last of his strength into me. He was breathing heavily and sweating, his eyes were closing beyond his will.

"You should get a little sleep," I said when he sank his head, completely exhausted.

"Too tired... forgive me, Daniil."

"It's all right."

I kissed him one last time. It's probably for the better we didn't become lovers. That would be both crude and cruel. Artemiy sank into sleep at once, embracing me with one arm, his breath warm on my shoulder. I waited a little, then carefully slipped from under his arm and rose. I would love to remain in his arms for a while longer, but there was no time even for that - I had to complete everything I had planned before he awoke.

* * *

I woke up from an unclear dream. I already felt I was alone, but still I ran my hand over the other side of the bed with my eyes still closed. Mother Bodkho, did that even...?

"Daniil?"

I sat up and saw a chest. Strange bottles and vials, a purse, a scalpel... and a sheet of paper covered with writing. A letter.

_"Artemiy,_

_My greatest regret is not meeting you earlier. We would have time then. I admire you. Somehow I never thought it was mutual._

_But I cannot live with what I have learned. To see dolls in everyone around, to know that I am a doll is madness._

_I don't want to lose myself like this, little by little. The only thing I ever feared was going mad, and now it's precisely this which is threatening me. Better to leave while still being of sound mind and memory._

_Thank you for this night._

_Farewell._

_Yours,_

_Daniil."_

I burst out of my hideout without putting my shirt on and ran into the town, not even feeling cold from the wind of September. I sprang upon the first passer-by I saw, some wench. Why she didn't run away from me, I have no idea.

"Oh, master Burakh, didn't you hear? He shot himself just this night, wrote he wouldn't like to apologize for this, the Authorities should... They say, Mistress Maria took to her bed from 

the grief, poor thing..."

I felt as if a knife was stuck into my throat.

"What is the matter, master?"

Why have you done it, Daniil? Why?

Too late to ask. No one to answer.

I was walking back through the town we have saved, wishing only to turn back the time. If I had only known, I wouldn't have let you go to meet the Authorities. I would have held you back by force, if I had to. If I had only known...

Two losses, one after the other. First father, then you. The vile Suok stole you from me all too fast.       

We've managed almost nothing, Daniil.

Too little time.


End file.
